


little fires everywhere

by pentaghastly



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, F/M, anyways im here to change that one slutty slutty fic at a time, it's a fucking shame, samu is the artist and carla is is muse, there are NOT enough fics for this ship, they're canon babeys!!!!!!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23299693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentaghastly/pseuds/pentaghastly
Summary: His name is Samuel García Domínguez.He has one million, two hundred thousand followers on Instagram.And they’re all trying to discover the identity of the woman in his latest piece.
Relationships: Carla Rosón Caleruega/Samuel García Domínguez, Guzmán Nunier Osuna/Nadia Shana, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 309





	little fires everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> samucarla is canon and endgame send tweet

**i.**

Carla paints her lips red. Bright, angry, like a perfectly ripe cherry or a dazzling fucking ruby or blood, maybe, if that’s the sort of thing that you’re into.

Warpaint, Lu calls it.

She tucks herself in the corner of the gallery and watches, taking her eyes off of the crowd every few seconds to take a polite sip of her champagne. People smile at her as they pass – _her_ people, the elite, men with silk bowties and women with real diamonds decorating the tips of their acrylic nails. They remain a polite distance away, of course, because nobody dares step closer than necessary to the very beautiful girl with the very cold, very dangerous stare. They want to, but at the least rich people are intelligent enough to differentiate between _want_ and _should_.

The boy who approaches isn’t intelligent, clearly.

He doesn’t look very rich, either. He looks –

“Do you like it?” 

Someone in a nearby conversation begins laughing, loud and unpleasant, and for the first time all evening, Carla wishes that she could join them. “Do I like what, exactly?”

“The art.” _Ah._ That shouldn’t surprise her; admiring the art is the sole purpose of this gallery opening, after all. “The paintings. Do you like them?” 

Her finger taps against the glass clutched delicately in her hand as she hums, non-committal, bored. The paintings are quite lovely, actually, if a little bit depressing. Their subjects are vague, lacking enough detail to feel both personal and yet anonymous all at once: a man sitting in a dark room alone, a hand with bloodied knuckles, a dark forest with only the barest hint of light flickering through the trees. Carla can’t pretend to understand much about art, doesn’t know much about schools of painting or the various techniques that are put into work when attempting to turn oil on canvas into a masterpiece, but she knows enough about what it means to be _aesthetically appealing_ to understand talent when she sees it. 

Still, she does little more than shrug. “They’re fine.” A pause, and then she adds, “A bit soulless, though. They lack an emotional depth that would make them anything of note.” Whether that’s true or not Carla isn’t certain, but it’s something that she’d heard her mother say at a different exhibit once, and she wants to sound as though she at least knows something about the subject.

A crease, strangely adorable, forms between his eyebrows. “ _Ouch_. I’ll try not to take that too personally.”

There’s something in his tone that surprises her. Specifically, there’s a sense of _amusement_ , of vague affection, and for the first time since he approached she finds herself noticing more about the man speaking to her beyond the fact that he’s speaking to her at all. 

He’s handsome. Short, but good-looking enough to send the slightest shiver down her spine. She’s always liked boys with dark hair, although he wears his much less tidy than Polo ever had. Messy, but not deliberately styled to look that way. There’s a roughness to him that no one in her circle possesses; his fingernails are chipped and there’s a fleck of red paint behind his left ear, small enough that anyone without a personal stylist wouldn’t have noticed it before leaving the house that evening. Carla notices it, though, and suddenly everything adds up.

“You’re the artist,” she says, more statement of fact than a question.

“Samuel.” His smile grows; it’s lovely, and she wants to wipe it off of him. “Do you really think my paintings are soulless?”

In the corner of her eye she sees Lu staring at them, _glaring_. Lu is the only reason Carla is there to begin with. Lu is there because the artist – Samuel, as it turns out – is a friend of Guzmán which meant that he would be there with his new girlfriend, so naturally, Lu had been determined to arrive and do recon; Carla is there because Lu had fucking needled her into agreeing to attend. She’s not here to flirt with handsome artists. She’s not here to reach forward, to lick her thumb and clean the droplets of paint from behind their ears.

“No,” Carla tells him, allowing her lips to curl only slightly at the relief that takes over his face. “No, I don’t. I don’t think anything about them at all.” 

Samuel laughs, delighted, kind.

“Can I get you another drink?” he asks, even though her champagne flute is still half full and she has to leave, now, before things become dangerous.

But it’s an open bar, and she doesn’t have anywhere else to be.

“Only if you’re buying.”

She’s going to be thinking about that laugh all fucking night.

**ii.**

“She was wearing a _hijab_ , Carla, did you see her? I bet the bitch doesn’t even –” 

Lu isn’t a bad person. Sometimes she just makes that very, very difficult to remember.

The town car is too warm. It’s warm and it smells like wine and sweat and the perfume that Lu had drenched herself in earlier that evening, despite Carla’s warning that the scent was far too strong. It’s warm enough to distract her from the blathering, explicitly racist rant that her best friend has gone off upon, a rant that began before they’d even left the gallery and has continued for the past twenty minutes and counting. She makes an attempt to listen every minute or so before turning it out one more; ignoring it altogether is easier than telling Lu that she doesn’t really give a shit and that Nadia actually seems quite nice.

His name is Samuel García Domínguez. Carla knows this because while Lu has been talking she has been looking him up, memorizing his Wikipedia page and scrolling through his Instagram. She wants to try it out for herself – _Samuel García Domínguez_ , a strangely beautiful name – wants to see how it feels on her lips, but Lu won’t stop fucking talking, voice growing hoarse from bitterness and overuse.

“Did you like the paintings?” Carla asks, forcefully casual, before she has a moment to stop herself.

For the first time all night, Lu stops talking. It lasts only a handful of seconds, but the silence washes over the car in a gentle wave, a temporary moment of peace. 

“Carla,” Lu says, “Carla, I don’t give a _fuck_ about the paintings. Did you listen to anything I just said? Guzmán is dating a fucking –” 

She doesn’t know why she expected anything else. 

**iii.**

His name is Samuel García Domínguez.

He has one million, two hundred thousand followers on Instagram.

And they’re all trying to discover the identity of the woman in his latest piece.

**iv.**

In the painting a woman stands alone against a white wall, champagne flute clutched in her hand. Her dress is black and tight; her face is sad, lonely, like a widow staring off at sea.

Her lips are red. Like cherries. Like warpaint. 

It’s beautiful, actually. When Carla first sees it during an absent scroll through his feed she freezes in place, a bit awed, a bit horrified; of course it’s flattering, the notion that a famous artist would think her a worthy subject for his latest piece, but the rational portion of her mind tells her that it’s also completely fucking insane and that is the piece of her thoughts that she chooses to listen to. She doesn’t have time for silly notions of romance, particularly not with (figuratively) starving artists who go out in public with flecks of paint dotted behind their ears.

It only takes her five minutes of needling and a half-hearted promise not to murder one of his closest friends before Guzmán eventually gives her Samuel’s number. Carla usually makes a point not to contact a man first, but this time – well, she figures she can make an exception.

**11:58 AM**  
_I don’t know what sort of game you think you’re playing._

_Delete the post. Immediately._

_My lawyers will be in touch._

**12:00 PM**  
_It’s not quite as soulless as the others, though._

**v.**

She answers the phone on the third ring.

 _”Does that mean that you liked it?”_

His voice sounds warmer over the phone, somehow. Softer, like velvet and chocolate and every delicious, decadent thing. It almost makes her forget why she’s irritated with him; or perhaps irritated isn’t the correct word, but why she feels at least a little bit like wringing him by his neck. Something about Samuel makes it very difficult to be angry with him, a feat that’s rather shocking – Carla’s never had trouble being angry with anyone before.

Still, let it never be said that she isn’t a phenomenal actress. “You mean beyond the complete invasion of my privacy and the relatively perverse notion of painting a woman you hardly know?” He laughs, the same laugh from the gallery. Carla wants to pull it from him again and again. “It was an improvement, I suppose.”

_“I’d be happy to get to know you better if you think that would help.”_

He’s charming.

It’s dangerous.

“It wouldn’t,” she says, and the lie tastes bitter on her tongue, “but you’re more than welcome to try.”

 _“I’m sorry.”_ The sincerity with which he speaks takes her by surprise; Carla feels as though she’s the one who should be apologizing, saying that she’s sorry for something that she hasn’t yet done. _“I should have considered how it would affect you. I just paint the things that I think about,”_ Samuel continues, voice infinitely more serious than it had been a moment previously, _“and lately the only thing that I’ve been thinking about is you.”_

What a horrible thing for him to say, she thinks. It’s horrible and unfair and cruel, because she believes him, and because it’s the kind of thing that could make Carla fall in love with him. It’s the kind of thing that she could think about when she lies awake at night, sleeping on silk sheets that never seem to keep her warm enough while wearing silk pyjamas that cling too tightly to all of her softer edges – she’ll think about Samuel thinking about her, red paint on his knuckles the same colour as the lipstick she’d been wearing the evening they met, and then she’ll find herself not wanting to think about anything else ever again. What a wicked, horrible thing.

She’s only loved one man before. Loving Polo hadn’t been a choice; he had been carved into her DNA from the time that she could walk, _Carla and Polo_ , two names that became a statement of fact when listed side by side. She still loves him now, even through all of the hurt and humiliation, the way that they had clawed one another to pieces.

She could love Samuel.

What a horrible thing.

“I bet that you say that to all of your muses,” Carla says, and she hates it – the way that she can hear the smile in her voice, knowing that he can hear it too.

 _“Only the ones that I’m trying to sleep with,”_ Samuel says, and laugh is pulled from her throat before she can stop herself. It’s surprised, awkward, _real_ , and she can only hope that he appreciates it’s value. Coming from her, the sound is one of a kind.

“Samuel.” It’s not the first time that Carla has said his name out loud, but it’s the first time she’s said it the way that she wanted to the night that they met: gently, softly, with more affection than she’d thought herself capable of. “You can keep the painting up if you’d like. It's...flattering. Just promise to tag me next time – since I’m the inspiration, I feel as though I deserve at least part of the credit.” 

_“You deserve all of it,”_ he tells her. _“Every last bit.”_

It comes to her after a moment, somewhere in the back her mind, that they’ve only spoken twice now – only once in person – and it’s strange, really, because Carla already feels as though she’s known him for her entire life.

It’s terrifying, the way that she thinks that she might like it.

**vi.**

Unsurprisingly, Lu isn’t invited to Nadia’s twenty-third birthday party.

The shouting match that ensues when she learns that Carla is, however, is something for the record books. It’s hardly their first argument, and if the past trajectory of their friendship is anything to go off of it isn’t going to be their last. They make up a handful of hours later when Carla begrudgingly agrees to send Lu an update of the night’s events every half-hour.

“Is the artist going to be there?” Lu asks, and Carla blushes.

Like a fucking _child_.

If Lu notices, she doesn’t mention it. She doesn’t tease Carla like she might have if they were still sixteen, doesn’t mock and criticize her for allowing herself to fall prey to the charms of _the lower class_. Maybe it has to do with the fact that Samuel is relatively well-respected in his field, even if the field is one that’s less than desirable in Lu’s books; maybe it’s only that as Carla has grown her best friend has grown alongside her – with Carla, because of Carla, grown ahead of Carla and held her hand to bring her along. 

Jesus, when did they get so old?

The night of the party they sit on her bedroom floor, Carla in front as Lu curls the pieces of her hair in the way that she used to when they were in high school. There’s a part of her that wishes she wasn’t going to this fucking thing alone – sure, the drama that would ensue from bringing Lucrecia as her plus-one would be apoplectic, but it would certainly be more comfortable than the thundering dread that’s clawing its way through her chest. 

They drink a bottle of wine, and then another. They paint her lips red, bright fucking red, and suddenly everything feels a bit less terrifying.

“You should wear the red dress,” Lu says after a minute, bittersweet and falsely light with nothing but kindness underneath. “The velvet Chanel with the scoop-neck. The artist will lose his mind over it; it does wonders for your tits.”

“My tits don’t need any help,” she snaps.

(She wears the dress, of course.

Lu has always known her better than she’s known herself.)

**vii**

Carla spends the first half-hour of the party looking for him.

In the end, she finds him entirely by accident.

She’s sitting on the foot of Marina’s bed determinedly studying the last text that he’d sent her – _will I see you later?_ , the one that she’d read fifteen times over before deciding it was much more alluring and mysterious to not reply at all – when Samuel fumbles his way inside the room, rubbing desperately at an ever-growing stain on his dark shirt. 

“Shit, sorry, I thought this was the bathroom, I didn’t –” he begins, but then he trails off and grins, so bright that she wonders if he isn’t mistaking her for someone else. “ _Oh_.”

“Oh,” Carla echoes, trying desperately not to smile. 

If he’s trying to do the same it clearly doesn’t work; he looks like a child who's just been gifted his favourite type of candy, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. “I didn’t actually think…Guzmán told me you were going to be here. Honestly, I thought he might have just been fucking with me.” 

Her brow furrows. “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

Samuel laughs, as though she’s just said something hilarious rather than ask a genuine question. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re not a very good liar, Samuel.”

“I just…it’s a house party.”

“And?”

He looks her up and down – looks at her as though he’s trying to undress her right then and there. His eyes are darker than she remembers, dark and warm, and the wine must be going to Carla’s head because she thinks about taking a step closer and seeing what other colours might be hidden inside of them. She’s sincerely regretting the rosé that Lu had talked her into before she left earlier that evening; her head is foggy and unclear, and all of the mental preparation that she’d done before seeing him again has gone out the window.

“Nothing. Never mind.” At least she isn’t the only one who seems to be out of her depths. “Can I sit?” She doesn’t say anything, just nods, and he perches on the mattress beside her. Like school children, testing each other’s boundaries to see how close is close enough. “I – I like your dress. I _really_ like your dress.”

“Thank you.’ She waits for a little while, waits until he’s sipping his drink before adding, “I chose it because Lu says that it does wonders for my tits.”

A minute later, once he’s no longer coughing and there’s no more beer dribbling out of his nose, Samuel pins her with a _look_ so full of heat that it makes her dizzy. _He_ makes her dizzy. At the very least she knows that she’s not the only one in over her head. At the very least, Carla knows that she seems to have as much of an effect on him as he has on her. 

“You’re evil,” he says. “You’re completely evil.”

She bumps her shoulder against his own. Skin on skin – is this the first time she’s ever touched him? It must be. Carla would remember this feeling if it had happened before: like she’s on fire, burning from the inside out. She wants to touch him again.

She wants him to touch her.

She wants –

“I’m glad you’ve finally figured it out.”

Silence falls between them, a silence that’s heavy-lidded and pulsing with something Carla can’t quite identify. Maybe she could if she was an artist like he is; she’d be able to put colours to all of the things that she’s feeling right now, find a shade of blue that properly encompasses the tingling of her fingers or a sunset-orange for the thrumming in her chest. Maybe she could, but for now, the only thing that she can do is slide her hand a bit closer so that the edges of their palms brush against one another, close and nowhere near close enough all at once.

The party is in full swing. The air is humming, vibrating, and in another room, people are laughing, cheering, dancing, drinking. Did Nadia even want this party? Carla wonders. Samuel slides his hand into hers, and she realizes that she doesn’t really care either way.

“Can I get you a drink?” he says, even though her cup is still half-full.

It doesn’t matter. Right now she’ll say yes to anything he asks.

“Only if you’re buying,” she answers.

He laughs.

She could really, really love him.

**viii.**

Carla remembers the night in bursts, images returning to her like bolts of lightning.

Cake. Shots. Dancing. Grinding. Hands on her waist – Samuel’s hands, clawing, pawing, kneading, leaving bruises like fingerprints on her thighs in the morning. She sits on his lap; he runs one hand through her curls as the other rests atop her thigh, by the hem, too close and nowhere near close enough.

Swimming in the pool in their underwear like they’re seventeen, like their entire lives are ahead of them and the world is limitless.

Samuel’s ankles under the water, brushing up against hers.

His lips, so close that she can hardly tell his breaths from her own but never close enough to touch.

She’s grateful for that, actually.

For the first time in her life, she wants to remember everything.

**ix.**

**September 18th, 9:00 PM**  
**@samu_arte** tagged you in a photo.

**x.**

The painting is…

Carla has always known that she’s beautiful. It’s an objective statement as fact, as intrinsic to her sense of self as her name. For the majority of her life, it defined the cornerstone of her personality; Lu is bitchy and ambitious, Marina is reckless and fun. Carla is beautiful, and nothing much else. It’s why she and Polo had made such a natural couple, with their high cheekbones and wide eyes, his angles and sharpness against her softness and curves.

He would whisper it against her skin when they fucked. _You’re beautiful,_ Polo would say, _you’re beautiful_. What he meant, she realizes, had been _We’re beautiful_ , although it hadn’t bothered her as much then as it does now.

The portrait that Samuel paints of her is not beautiful.

It’s striking.

It’s a portrait of her face. _Just_ her face, the night of Nadia’s party after they’d gone swimming in the pool. Her mouth is stretch into a smile that’s a bit too wide; her eyeliner, which had started the night artfully applied and sharp as a knife, is running in teardrops down her cheeks. The smudged black lines ring eyes made of colours Carla has never known her own to possess: blue and gold, with mossy green flecked underneath freckles of hazy brown. These eyes, a little bit crooked, crinkle at the corners from the strain of her smile. 

She studies it for what feels like ages, studies it until her eyes start to burn and strain with the effort. It’s unlike anything that she’s ever painted, and the comments on the image seem to echo her sentiment. They’re unanimously positive, however, for which she is somewhat relieved. Carla isn’t sure that she could live with being known as the woman who had squashed Samuel García Domínguez’s creative spirit.

The caption is simple.

_PENSAMIENTOS EN LA NOCHE._

It tells her everything she needs to know.

**xi.**

Samuel is strange.

Samuel talks about things like art and colour theory and the utilization of art for inspiring underprivileged youth to seek a life outside of poverty and the streets.

They speak on the phone through the night, hours at a time, to a point where it becomes a habitual part of her routine; the sound of Samu’s brush strokes on canvas lull her to sleep. And he _talks_ , more than she ever thought anyone besides Lu could. He tells her about his brother, about his mother, about how when his childhood friends began turning to petty theft and drug dealing his mother enrolled him in an after-school art program to keep him on the right track, to stop him from spiraling ever-further down in the way that Nano had before him.

He tells her a story about seeing a girl standing in the corner of an art gallery alone, a girl with eyes so blue that he thought that he could drown in them, and how after he saw her he thought that he’d never want to look at anyone else again. 

“It was you,” he says, “if that wasn’t obvious.”

“You’re so pretentious,” Carla tells him, voice heavy with sleep and affection poorly masked as annoyance. “You’re the most pretentious poor person I know.” 

_“I’m not poor anymore,”_ he reminds her, _“but you’d still like me if I was.”_

She doesn’t reply to that, drifting off to sleep to the sound of his voice, but she doesn’t need to, anyway; they both know that she would.

They dance around it, still, the fact that she’s had dreams where he just _holds_ her and the fact that every second post on his art page has to do with her. Roughly drawn sketches of her lips, half-finished canvases overwhelmed by paintings of her silhouette, her hair, her eyes. They dance around it, whatever _it_ really is – it’s something beautiful and new, something Carla hadn’t known was possible until it was right in front of her and now…now she knows that she’ll never want anything else.

They don’t kiss. They don’t touch. They just talk, talk about everything and nothing in between, and every day Carla wakes up wanting her more, and every day he paints her again, and again, and again.

The dance continues.

And continues.

**x.**

**5:58 PM**  
_Samu, remember when you bragged to me about your macaroni?_

_And I said that you couldn’t pay me enough money in the world to convince me to try it?_

_Send me your address._

**6:01 PM**  
_In case it wasn’t clear, make sure you’re preparing enough dinner for two._

**xi.**

She knocks on the door of his apartment, a two-bedroom in the artsy-but-rich part of town that’s become so desirable as of late, and when Samu opens it to greet her he looks at her as though she’s an apparition, as though he hadn’t expected her to arrive at all.

She’s frightened, for only a moment but long enough, that he might have changed his mind.

He won’t take his eyes off of her.

It’s romantic, certainly, but Carla also is starting to feel like she’s under a microscope. They’re curled up on his leather couch, thighs brushing, and as she focuses on her macaroni – which is surprisingly good, actually – she can feel Samuel fucking _staring_ at her, studying her face as though attempting to commit every inch of it to memory.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” he’d said when she’d first arrived, a little bit confused, a little bit awed. Carla understands without asking, exactly what he means: her hair is tied loosely, messily behind her head. Her skin is clean and clear of makeup, and there are holes in the collar of her soft green sweater, one that she wears to bed more often than she wears outside. Samu has never seen her like this because _nobody_ has, nobody but Lu and Polo and, on occasion, her mother. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Is there a problem?” she asks, a bit teasing, a bit concerned that she’s stripped the glamour away and shown him something real. “I can leave if you’d like. I’m sure you can finish all of the macaroni on your own.”

Except Samu doesn’t send her away – he just laughs, grabs her hand and tugs her inside, his palm a little bit sweaty. He holds her so tight that she wonders if he’s not trying to anchor her there with his touch, as though he’s frightened that if he lets go she’ll make good on her teasing and walk right back out the door. What a silly thing, Carla thinks. Right now she can’t imagine being anywhere other than here.

He won’t take his eyes, those ridiculous, chocolate brown and golden-honeyed eyes, off of her.

She can’t decide whether or not she likes it.

Even now, even here they’re still dancing around it, the two of them, alone and sober, sitting so close that she can feel the warmth of his breath on her cheeks. It’s not close enough; she wants to touch him. Carla wants him to touch her, and if he does she’s going to let him.

“This isn’t that bad, actually.” She says it mostly just to break the tension, but it’s true; it appears that Samu can cook almost as well as he can paint. “That’s a bit annoying. You’re not allowed to be this good at two things at once.” 

He’s looking at her.

She’s doing everything in her power not to look at him.

And then suddenly, without warning, he’s kissing her.

Everything happens at once: his hands in her hair, dragging down to her hips, her back arching to pull herself closer into his touch. Is there such a thing as close enough? There can’t be, Carla thinks, because every inch of her is touching every inch of him and it’s somehow _still_ not enough. Nobody has ever kissed her like this before, kissed her as though they’re trying to devour every inch of her, but when Samu moans against her lips, desperate and ragged, she thinks that must be exactly what he’s trying to do.

He pulls back for a second, nose brushing against hers, and it takes Carla a moment to realize that he’s laughing; he sounds a bit breathless, panting like he’s just finished running a marathon, and she understands the feeling completely. She can hear her pulse echoing in her ears.

What a sight they must be, she thinks. Samuel García Domínguez and Carla, the Marchioness, with messy hair and flushed cheeks, climbing onto his lap and searching desperately for any sort of friction that she can find. She wants to make herself a home there, wants to bury herself in his chest and never leave, never be with anyone else. Lu would mock her relentlessly for it but Lu isn’t here, thank fuck, and right now Carla doesn’t really care about what anyone would think except for him.

“I’m sorry,” Samu says, pressing their foreheads together, eyes fluttering shut. He doesn’t sound sorry at all, actually, and for that she’s thankful. “I just…you had sauce on your cheek. I thought I’d help you get it off.” 

It’s ridiculous.

It’s utterly insane.

It’s –

“I love you,” Carla tells him, giggling against his cheek. “You’re completely insane.” 

“And you love me,” he says.

“And I love you.”

It’s easy. It’s so, _so_ easy – maybe that’s only because Carla is so used to emotions being minefields, to never knowing if kisses are meant to heal or wound. She’s never known that it could be like this: she’s never known that someone could cup her cheeks with the tenderness of someone who worries she might break, that they could breathe and it would feel as though she was breathing too, that the beating of her heart would match their own and everything, finally, would begin to make sense. She never knew that she was looking for Samuel. She’d never known that she could find someone like him and that he would find her, too.

His lips are chapped.

He smells like cinnamon.

He kisses her like he never wants to stop.

“I love you,” he says against her lips, desperate and disbelieving. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He kisses her like that might be true.

**xii.**

Carla paints her lips pink. Sweet, gentle, like strawberry ice cream, cotton candy, like the colour that dusts Samuel’s cheeks when she tells him she loves him again, and again, and again.

For her birthday he gifts her an oil painting of that stupid fucking macaroni.

She tells him that maybe his art isn’t so soulless, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos & comments are life itself xx

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [if teardrops could be bottled, there'd be swimming pools filled by models](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26706733) by [lavenderss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderss/pseuds/lavenderss)




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